The Road to Salvation
by Missekatten
Summary: While he does not believe in salvation, Erik cannot ignore the fact that meeting Charles Xavier has changed something. Whether he can pursue his goal of exacting revenge on Shaw and still maintain the fragile but reassuring sense of mutual understanding with Charles, remains to be seen.
1. Chapter 1

If nothing else about his current situation is desirable, at least the boat is made out of metal.

Erik is still in his wetsuit and sitting on the edge of a bottom bunk bed in a cabin, a blanket draped around his shoulders that does little to provide any warmth. He needs to change, and they let him collect his briefcase and the change of clothes from the pier before boarding, but what he needs right now, more than dry clothes, is time to think.

_You have to let go!_

The voice is no longer in his head, but he remembers it clearly: urgent and serene, just like the hands grabbing at his shoulders, pulling him up, away, as the submarine and Schmidt disappeared into the murky darkness of the cold, black water. _I know what this means to you, but you're going to die. Please, Erik, calm your mind._

He shudders, and not only from the cold. His mind has been the only thing he has ever been allowed to keep to himself, and if what he thinks happened actually did, then that too, that last sanctuary, has been stripped bare and invaded.

A knock on the metal door gets him out his thoughts and he takes a second to gather himself before he reaches to open it. It is Xavier. He has changed into dry clothes but his hair is still wet, dark curls around his temples. He has a steaming cup in each hand and the smell of coffee wafts into the enclosed space.

"I thought you might need something hot; I know I do."

"Thank you" Erik says warily, accepting the offered cup.

"Do you mind if I come in?"

The cup suggests that that has been Xavier's intention, and while Erik wants to be alone, he also needs information. Answers.

"No."

Xavier steps inside the door without even a moment's pause. He looks very unofficial in his trousers and sweater but Erik learned long ago that looks can be more than deceiving. Even so, he takes some comfort and satisfaction from the fact that they are surrounded by metal. Granted, it is the CIA's vessel and Xavier is apparently in some way associated with them, but everything in it, from walls, doors and floor to the bunk beds and shelves, is made out of different kinds of metal. That metal is currently creaking and groaning slightly, the sound of the engines in the machine room reverberating through the hull as the boat makes its way through the water. _Just like Schmidt's submarine_. Drowning would have been a small price to pay to finally put an end to the lifelong hunt for that man's life.

"Wouldn't you like to change?" Xavier asks suddenly, and he sounds a bit… _bothered_ by the fact that Erik has not yet taken the time to change out of his soaked wetsuit. "You did have some warm clothes, didn't you?"

"I do, but I have questions as well" Erik replies. "Sit down, if you please."

Charles does sit down. He sits in the most curious way though, one leg over the other and his hands placed above his knees, one hand still holding the cup. It is a posture that projects interest and eagerness. Not relaxation, but not the carefully constructed ease adapted by someone conducting an interrogation either. Erik on the other hand feels as if preparing for battle, muscles tense and breathing controlled. This man has been inside his head, has said things without speaking that Erik does not want to and needs to hear, and he has to find out how.

"Are you a fed?" Erik asks, because while the possibility of mind-breaking-and-entering is pressing on his mind, no, burning _in_ his mind, this is the most important question.

"What? No, no, not by a long shot." Charles laughs "I was asked to help them bring in Shaw, but I'm more of a… consultant in this case." The laugh turns into a smile, as if he has touched upon some joke that he knows Erik is not privy to, and it is annoying as hell for the span of a split second, when Xavier asks, in a rather kindly tone of voice, "is there anything else you want to know?"

Millions of things. But this is not the time nor the place for such questions, so Erik settles for the next most important one.

"What's going to happen to me?"

"Nothing. They will leave you alone until we get back to base."

"And then?"

"You can either come with us, or go wherever you want to go."

"I don't believe it." Xavier looks mildly taken aback by this reply, so Erik continues: "No federal corps is that lenient."

"Well, no, I suppose not." Xavier shrugs awkwardly and looks, suddenly, young and innocent, and then takes a sip of coffee. There is a grimace on his face instantly; whether from the temperature or the taste is impossible to tell. He presses his lips together a few times, not smacking them, because this is a slower movement and inaudible, but still significant in some way. His lips are slightly chafed, Erik notices, as Xavier says: "But it's true, nonetheless."

Something happens then, not in the cabin but in the entire body of the vessel. The hum in the metal changes and it takes Erik a second or so to realize that the engines are slowing down. They must be reaching shore. Opposite him, Xavier takes another sip of his coffee and then smiles. It seems genuine and Erik wonders if it is. He does not trust others easily, not at all in fact, but Xavier almost makes him want to.

"We'll be docking in a few minutes" Xavier says. "I'll see you on the deck then, perhaps?"

He rises from the bed and leaves without another word. Erik remains on his bunk, hands still holding the cup of untouched coffee. He has to locate Schmidt again and he needs answers, and while he can find the submarine, he knows that he will probably not outrun the federal agents in doing so. As for answers… Charles Xavier seems to be his best bet.

He reaches for his clothes and begins changing into them. The coffee cup is put on the floor and then left there as he leaves the cabin to join Xavier on the deck. He never liked coffee.

* * *

He is introduced to Xavier's sister and a few agents whose names he instantly decides to forget. They are not the reason why he is here and if he has to make a run for it, he would rather not know them as he crushes their heads inside their helmets or aims their guns at each other. Raven's name sticks with him though and he cannot help but look at her, because it is as if when he sees her out of the corner of his eye, he sees something else than her blond, thick hair and fair skin. He does not know what though, and perhaps it is only the nightly adventure in cold water that makes him imagine things, so he chooses to ignore it for the time being.

She does not say much and neither does Xavier, at least not to him, but it grows evident from Xavier's discussion with the agents in the front seat of the car that whoever these people are, and whatever Xavier is, the agents know at least something about whatever his abilities are. Eric listens to them without speaking, hoping that they might let something slip about Schmidt, but they do not. What they do say, though, is a word Erik has not heard before, at least not in this context.

_Mutant._

That is what they are, he understands. Himself and Xavier and apparently Raven as well. Something more than human. _Mutants_. He rather likes the word, it is highly preferable to _monster_ or _freak_, which are words he is far more acquainted with, in many different languages. _Mutant_ has a sophisticated tone to it, a note of pride, and he takes it to heart.

They arrive at a great building compound, all polished stone slabs and big windows, but there is metal as well, hidden in the structures and in the weapons and equipment. It is vibrating with activity, and they barely have time to step out of the car before they are introduced to the federal plan: a task force.

Xavier is thrilled, it is easy to see, and his energy carries him away when they are taken to one of the research and tech labs. It is large and clean and rather silent, but Erik can feel the shiver of fear travelling up and down his spine as he involuntarily recalls other laboratories. If anyone suggests putting a needle in him he will put the syringe so far up that person's arm that they will never get it out. Xavier gives him a look, taking in the crossed arms, and then proceeds to admire the aero plane suspended in the hangar ceiling: admiration soon transferred to the young man bragging about it dressed up in a lab coat. Erik keeps his distance from him.

A moment later, Erik realizes that Charles Xavier is naïve. Sure, he apologizes for his tactless way and then encourages the guy to show off, but in unintentionally outing him in the first place, Xavier rather proves that he has lived a shielded life. He honestly thinks that these agents will not harm them or any other mutant.

That kind of thinking is dangerous, but it is not the right moment to point it out, either.

Then, Raven shows her ability and Erik is stunned. She is exquisite underneath the layers of her power that shields her true nature from showing. He cannot keep his eyes from her and neither, he notices, can Hank, the lab coat. He also notices how Charles averts his eyes. For the first time in the past twenty-four hours, he looks uncomfortable. He soon disappears with the agents, not looking at Raven or Erik or even the lab coat, and they are left to their own devices.

That makes it so much easier when one hour later, Erik breaks into one of the offices and retrieves the file on Sebastian Shaw, Schmidt's new alias.


	2. Chapter 2

"From what I know about you, I'm surprised you've managed to stay this long."

These words are spoken, but they are just as unsettling as the mind-breaking ones, as they pierce the chilled night air and make Erik stop in his tracks.

"What do you know about me?" he asks. Xavier makes it sound as if this has all been a test of some kind and Erik is dead tired of tests. He has to get out of here, find Schmidt and kill him – there is no time for anything else.

"Everything."

"Then you stay out of my head" Erik replies and turns his back, in spite of the fact that every ounce of self-preservation makes him want to ensure that anyone who makes such a claim, that anyone who knows anything at all about him, must die, because the option is too dangerous. He does not get far though.

"I'm sorry Erik, but I've seen what Shaw did to you."

Erik stops. That shiver running up and down his spine has spread across his entire body in an instant: he can feel every hair on his body stand up as it tries to decide whether to fight or flee.

"I've felt your agony. I can help you."

No one has ever said those words before. But while he does not believe them, he feels the same kind of strange comfort as he did from the words in the water, and he laughs at himself for it.

"I don't need your help" he says. The response is immediate and the naivety from the lab earlier is gone.

"Don't kid yourself. You needed my help last night. It's not just me you're walking away from. Here you have the chance to be part of something much bigger than yourself."

The confidence emanating from him is almost palpable and Erik cannot help but feel the impact of the words, though he tries not to. That would be some day, when he let a spoiled university professor with a knitted cardigan dictate his comings and goings. To his surprise though, Xavier does not move to stop him. Rather the contrary.

"I won't stop you leaving. I could. But I won't."

And he backs away, one step, two, three, and he looks genuinely disappointed. In Erik? Impossible to tell, because in the next moment Xavier turns his back and as he calls back to Erik over his shoulder his voice is confident again.

"Shaw's got friends. You could do with some."

* * *

As Erik steps into the reception area, Xavier is there, smiling.

"I've not decided to stay" Erik says. "But I want answers."

"Then I suggest we retire to somewhere a bit more private" Xavier replies. "I'll try and get us something to drink."

Five minutes later they are in the room assigned to the professor as his sleeping quarters. It is a simple room, by American standards, which means it contains a bed and a nightstand, a desk and a chair, and one armchair. Erik's room looks exactly the same. It is not the least bit personal, why would it be, but it is much better than many other places he has spent the night in.

"Sorry about this, it seems there is a no-alcohol-policy going on here" Xavier says and offers Erik a soda can spirited away from some vending machine or refrigerator. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Erik rejects the offered armchair and sits down on the edge of the desk instead. Xavier, cocking an eyebrow at him, takes the armchair instead and opens his can. A few moments pass.

"Start wherever you like" Xavier says, answering Erik's unvoiced thought and thereby giving Erik the perfect cue.

"How do you do that?" he asks. "It's like you're reading my mind and last night, you were in my head. I heard your voice in my head. What are you?"

To his surprise, Xavier chuckles.

"I'm a telepath" he says, sipping on his soda. "It's not a good word, but it's the best I've found so far."

"And what does that mean?"

"I guess it means that I read minds. Or it's rather as if I hear thoughts, and I can communicate my own thoughts to others. That's what you heard, by the way. I didn't really have another way of talking with you there, under water." He leans back in the armchair and looks up at Erik, apparently trying to decide what to say next, and then reaching a decision. His hands close tighter around the soda can as he continues. "I can also influence the sensory systems of others, alter their impressions. And I can experience their memories and emotions."

His hands are smooth, Erik notices. Unmarred.

"Impossible" he mumbles, but Xavier picks up on it.

"Not any more than your ability, I'd say. How would you describe it? Metal-telekinetic doesn't really seem to cover it."

Erik shakes his head and meets the other man's gaze again. His eyes are blue and they seem suddenly to hold endless compassion. Such an unusual thing to find in someone else's eyes, but there it is, and Erik realizes that he has all but forgotten the last time anyone looked at him like that. He does not dislike it as much as he thought he would.

"That's not what I meant" he says and looks away. "I've never met anyone else before. Anyone like me."

"You said you thought you were alone." Charles' voice is soft and suddenly his hand is on Erik's, holding it. Unmarred it might be, but it is not weak. "But you're not alone Erik. You're not alone."

"I thought…" Erik begins, not really wanting to say the words, but it is as if they are being pulled out of him, or spilling over, and he cannot keep them back despite desperately wanting to. "I thought I was a monster."

"I know." Charles's voice is a whisper now. "I know. I could feel your pain, Erik. All of it. I can tune out humans easily enough, even other mutants, but you… Your mind was like a beacon and I was flooded with the light of it. The pain, the anger, all that you carry within you. I couldn't shut it out."

"Then shouldn't you have let me drown?"

Charles lets go of his hand instantly. The bitterness of the words taste awful in Erik's mouth but he cannot bring himself to lift the can to his mouth and drink. He knows all too well that even soda cannot drown out the taste.

"Don't mistake me for a Good Samaritan" Charles says. "I wouldn't want anyone to kill themselves, regardless, but when I'm so intimately connected with someone as I was with you… Well, I say connected, but that's not a good word either. More like overwhelmed by, in this case. Anyway, I would have experienced it with you. Dying. And it's not something I'm very keen on experiencing, if I can prevent it."

For a moment, Erik does not know what to say, so he seeks refuge in the soda can. It is half empty when he removes it from his lips and his mouth feels sticky with sugar.

"These people" he says at last and gestures vaguely to indicate the building and the agents inside it, "they know what you can do?"

"More or less. Not more than they need to know – and should the need arise, I can remove that knowledge from their memories."

Charles seems relaxed enough, but the look in his eyes is sharp. He could just as easily remove Erik's knowledge, then, or others' knowledge about Erik, if need be.

"So why were you there last night?"

"The man you tried to get your hands on, Shaw, Schmidt, whatever name he goes by, he has made himself known to the CIA in a bad way. I made sure I could be there when they brought him in, thought I could be of some help."

"Which you didn't" Erik points out, a civil way of saying _then why the fuck did you stop me from taking him down? _which Charles perhaps picks up on anyway, though he does not give any sign of having done so. He reclines slightly in the armchair.

"There was another telepath, or at least I think there was. I was blocked out – quite an interesting experience. Novel. It was a shame, really, because his mutant abilities seemed extraordinary."

The words are like electricity through Erik's body, but not like ever before.

"His?" he echoes. "Schmidt's?"

"Yes?" Charles looks surprised at first and then his expression changes into one of realization. He has an incredibly expressive face. "Oh. You didn't know."

Erik feels as if he has lost the gift of speech, because words simply will not come out. He knows the exact number of days he spent as Schmidt's plaything, his experiment, his puzzle to solve, but never during that time could he imagine that the man had powers beyond those of an ordinary human being. Unless one counted sadism, cruelty and creative torture: Schmidt was a prodigy in those areas.

"That's never happened to you before?" he asks some long moments later, taking Charles by surprise judging by the other man's face.

"Excuse me?"

"Being… blocked out?"

"No, never."

"And you can use your ability without even trying? That's amazing."

But Charles shakes his head.

"You misunderstand, I'm afraid. How would you describe your ability? Like a pool, something you can draw power from?"

"I guess" Erik says, not really reluctant to answer but unaccustomed to it. No one has ever asked him to describe his power before, and while he thinks that Charles' earlier attempt at defining it, metal-telekinesis, is good, it is not all-encompassing. "But the larger the object, the more demanding it is to control."

"So crushing this can wouldn't be a problem, but doing the same thing to a car would take more effort?"

"Marginally. It depends on the composition of metal as well."

"I see. Well, my problem isn't about accessing, most of the time: it's about not getting too much. I _could_ read all the minds of the people in this building, but there's a limit to what even my mind can handle. To sort through all those memories and emotions and desires, and still remember your own self? Keep up a conversation? I could do it for a minute, perhaps five, but I would pay for it afterwards by spending a few days in a dark room, nursing a migraine from hell. No, accessing isn't a problem. I can tune out a lot, but I've never been outright deflected like that before."

Charles looks somehow older: old in the way that Erik sometimes feels when the world seems too brilliant and too spectacular to possibly be true. How much effort does it take, Erik wonders, to ward off that amount of unwanted information? And what thoughts, like his own, could he not shield himself from?

"You said you couldn't tune me out" he remarks, and this appears to bring Charles back to the room, as if he has been somewhere deep in thought. Which he probably has, Erik reminds himself, though if it was his own or someone else's remains unknown. "Why is that?"

"It has to do with emotion, I think" Charles replies thoughtfully. "The more intense the feeling, the clearer I feel the mind. Right now, you're like any other mutant – or your mind is, anyway."

He smiles, but Erik cannot return it.

"You've used that word a lot today."

"I guess I have. I like it."

"Are there many of us?"

"Quite a lot. I've felt many, and I believe that there are hundreds more out there, maybe thousands. Even if only one out of a million people is a mutant, that still makes a lot of people, and I think we're more common than that. That said, I don't know if the telepath on the yacht tonight has the same abilities as I have, or if there's someone with your powers, but there are others. As I told you, you're not alone."

Under normal circumstances, Erik would be annoyed to hear those same words repeated over and over again. But these are not normal circumstances – hell, has he ever been in even one normal circumstance? – and he feels undressed suddenly, and vulnerable.

"How much do you remember?" he asks, and his voice is rough even to his own ears. "Out of all the things you hear?"

Charles takes a moment before answering, and when he does, his voice is very, very soft.

"I couldn't say" he says. "No more than you could account for all the things you ever did or said or felt. But for a few moments last night I saw you. _You_. And all the things that have made you who you are."

"That must have been horrible." Erik's voice does not come out the way he wants it to. He went for sardonic, instead it is croaky and for some reason his vision is getting blurry around the edges, and suddenly he feels the gentle squeeze of Charles' hand again.

"No, it wasn't." The words are almost inaudible now, but intense. "There is anger and pain and hate, yes, but there is also love, and passion. I saw it and felt it, and I'm telling you: you are not a monster, and you are not alone."

Once again a shiver runs up Erik's spine, but not from cold or fear. Charles' hand is warm and Erik realizes that he is standing up now, very close, and the proximity is simply too much. He jerks his hand away and leaves the room, Charles' words echoing in his mind until well into the morning hours. His mother believed in the possibility of salvation: Erik does not.


	3. Chapter 3

When morning comes, he has not yet left. He has returned Schmidt's file to the cabinet, still unable to make himself look at it, when he happens to hear one of the agents talking with Charles. It is a discussion he cannot help but interrupting, as soon as he understands what it is about.

"Erik." Charles' voice is pleasant and polished, not at all like last night. "You decided to stay."

He nods ever so briefly but then turns to the agent: a man apparently too stupid to understand what it is he has just proposed.

"If a new species is being discovered" Erik says, weighing his words, "it should be by its own kind. Charles and I find the mutants. No suits."

The only suit present takes serious offense.

"First of all, that's my machine out there. Second of all, and much more importantly, this is Charles' decision. Charles is fine with the CIA being involved. Isn't that right?"

_Mutants are our people, and I won't see them hunted down by an anonymous, under-the-radar branch of the government_, Erik thinks, and he knows from Charles' eyes that he is picking up on the thought.

_They don't want to hurt us Erik_, Charles' voice says in his mind, but Erik's retort is immediate: _Maybe _he_ doesn't, but what about his superiors? Even you can't know every ulterior motive._

Charles does not answer, but he takes a deep breath and breaks away from Erik's gaze, looking instead at the man in front of him.

"No, I'm sorry, but I'm with Erik. We'll find them alone."

The suit looks dumbfounded for a second, then says, "what if I say no?"

"Then good luck using your installation without me."

Erik almost smiles.

* * *

"You made a good point in there" Charles remarks as they make their way across the grass covered field where the apparatus in question is situated.

"Are you surprised?"

"No, I'm thankful. This is very exciting, but you're right: if we give information about our fellow mutants to the government, we cannot know what will happen to it. This way, at least, we can retain some control."

Raven looks at them questioningly but asks nothing. She is, if possible, even more reserved towards Erik than yesterday, and she is still in her assumed form. He cannot help but think that she looks dull and tired, and why would she not? She should wear her own beautiful skin instead of putting on that façade of normality. She is more than human and she should show it to the world.

It is a rickety stair up to the inside of the spherical building, but it is metal, as well as the structure forming the globe, and there is that soft hum in it, that promise that if only he reaches out with his power, the metal will yield to his will.

Charles looks absolutely entranced with the machines, all eagerness as he admires the centerpiece and nods as Hank techno-babbles about his toy. Curiosity and awe are mingled with suspicion as Erik glances over the equipment and he catches sight of Charles trying on the rubber and plastic helmet. He looks perfectly silly as he beams with high expectations.

"What an adorable lab rat you make Charles" Erik says.

"Don't spoil this for me Erik" Charles replies, his voice full of determination.

"I've been a lab rat" Erik says, and he is not teasing. He cannot voice it, but he does not trust Hank's machines not to do more damage than good. "I know one when I see one."

Charles does not reply, but he refuses Hank's wish to shave his head and Erik is oddly relieved. It takes some of the edge off from this surreal experience. As Hank starts pressing buttons and flicking switches, Erik leans forward. He does not touch Charles, and would not, not knowing if that might disturb something in the instruments, but he knows that if something goes wrong, he can grab hold of Charles and drag him out of there in a matter of seconds.

Charles shoots him a stern glance, evidently catching the train of thought, but says nothing. He closes his eyes and braces himself – and then it begins. He gasps but does not seem to be in any real pain, only overwhelmed, and then he begins to chuckle and then laugh, and while Hank is shouting cheerfully by his control panel, Erik cannot help but wonder at Charles' expression of relief and happiness.

He cannot fathom what it must have been like to grow up hearing other people's minds, but he knows the exhilarating feeling of new achievements, and what he sees in Charles face, right then and there, is that burst of adrenalin and endorphin. Ridiculous as he appears with that stupid helmet on, Charles has reached a new level with his ability, and when at long last he removes it, hair all on end and tousled but face beaming with the thrill, Erik reaches out and pats him celebratory on the back, sending silent prayers of thanks to the god he no longer believes in.

* * *

An hour later, they are in the car and on their way to their first destination. It is one of the agency's cars, black and polished chrome and a powerful engine that obeys every gentle touch, and Erik finds himself thoroughly enjoying the ride. It is only him and Charles in the car and Charles prattles on and on about what it was like being connected to the machine, no, to all those people whose minds he could feel so far away and yet so perfectly close, and Erik listens with only one ear, the other taking in the sounds of metal working around them. That is probably why it takes him a moment to realize that Charles has stopped talking, and has been silent for some time.

It is not an expectant silence, the kind that comes when an answer of some kind is due, so Erik glances over at Charles in the passenger seat. Charles is looking at him and smiling.

"You're an excellent driver" he says.

"Surprised?" Erik is not offended, not really, but it is not really the kind of compliment he would have expected. Honestly, he was not expecting a compliment at all.

"No, just in awe."

"Why?" Erik cannot keep the surprise from his own voice, because sure, he has a head start in everything where engines are concerned, but it is not as if driving is difficult.

"I can't drive."

"Why not?"

"A terrible case of absent-mindedness" Charles says, half a smile. "Honestly, when everyone I knew was getting their driver's license I wouldn't trust myself to bring the car up the driveway without an incident, so I never learned how to."

"That's inconvenient."

"It is. But you don't mind driving, do you?"

"I love driving."

That is _way_ more than he had planned on divulging, but he finds that he does not mind the slip-up much. Instead, he takes his hands off the wheel – even in this speed, the car continues straight on, perfectly in the middle of the lane.

"Hands on the wheel, please."

Erik takes the wheel immediately, because even he can catch the hint of distress in Charles' voice and the way the other man's face has turned slightly paler. He is still driving the car more by way of his mind and will than by his hands, but if the gesture is reassuring, then why not?

"Everything okay?" he asks and Charles nods.

"It's not that I don't trust your driving, but I don't trust everyone else's."

"Scared of a crash?"

He does not say it loud, but thinks to himself that he could stop it, that even a moment's notice is all he needs to avert a collision – and then reminds himself that maybe there is no such thing as _to himself_ any more.

"I'm scared of being injured."

It is surprisingly soft, Charles' voice, and terribly honest. This is too personal a subject but Erik cannot ignore it either.

"Injured?" he echoes, thoughts flitting through his mind as he tries to make sense of the admittance and not accidentally accelerate into the car in front of them or grind some part of the engine in the wrong way.

"Yes. For all my mental prowess, I don't think I could stand to spend my life unable to do whatever I wanted, physically."

"No one wants that."

"I'm not talking about wanting" Charles says, rather sharply. All his earlier enthusiasm about the Cerebro-success is completely gone. "I'm talking about enduring."

Erik does not look at Charles, but sees him anyway. Not very athletic, Charles, but in the two days Erik has known him – heck, _two_ days? – he has always been brimming with energy, whether in form of confidence and determination or childish enthusiasm. He cannot imagine Charles immobile, even in sleep.

"Well, if it eases your mind" Erik finally manages to say, "I'll keep my hands on the wheel."

"Thank you."

* * *

It is strangely relaxing to be on the road with Charles. Sure, they have a mission, but they spend a lot of time in the car, just driving for miles and miles on end. Even so, the many long hours in the car are never boring. They talk a lot, about books and history and art, where they mostly agree with each other, and about music and philosophy, where they disagree. Charles points out places along the road and Erik tells him of other places, far away, but they never talk about home, where they come from, not so much an unspoken agreement as a matter of fact.

They spend the nights in cheap motels and in the mornings, Charles asks for just another five minutes for a second time and Erik says he already got five and if he wants anymore sleep he can have it in the car. When they overhaul other cars, sometimes, Charles smiles and tells Erik something he picked up from the people there, and sometimes Erik finds himself performing small tricks with metallic objects, just in order to see surprise and delight in Charles' face as the salt shaker rises from the table seemingly by itself.

The kids are perhaps younger than Erik would prefer, but their abilities are impressive. As much as he enjoys seeing them happy about finding others to share their secrets with, he is never more happy than when they have dropped of another one at the base and they are on their way out again, just him and Charles.

One night the receptionist shakes her head apologetically and informs them that all the single and twin rooms are occupied and how terribly sorry she is and how there is another ten miles until the next motel in this direction but that she can call ahead for them and ask and -

_I've spent the night in worse conditions_, Erik thinks pointedly, because it is late and he could really do with a shower and some sleep right now, and Charles nods and asks for any room with a bed, if you please, thank you miss. Two minutes later they step into a small, impersonally decorated double-room and Erik claims dibs on the shower. He takes these minutes of privacy to jerk off and finds that Charles appears in his thoughts while he does it. He is not very surprised at this, but if there is one thing Charles absolutely does not need to know, it is this: Erik groaning as he imagines Charles hand on his body, making him shiver, stagger and come.

He takes another minute to cool off and collect his calm, then turns the water to cold for five seconds, to kick-start circulation again. As he enters the room a few moments later, Charles is on the phone with his sister. No way of telling if he caught anything from Erik's mind in the past few minutes, no way of knowing if that is a relief or not.

"You didn't use all the hot water, did you?" Charles asks as he hangs up.

"No."

"Good. I feel positively grimy."

He does not look it, but then, Erik cannot be the only one who needs a few minutes of space. He lays down on the bed, not quite ready to drowse off yet, and fiddles with the coin that he carries with him constantly.

Maneuvering it allows his thoughts to drift and he is abruptly brought back to the now when Charles sits down on the bedside, dressed in full pajamas (compared to Erik's preferring just the bottoms) and hair damp, a lingering whiff of the generic brand shampoo among the curls. The coin falls onto his chest with a soft thud.

"You play with that a lot" Charles remarks, voice casual, and Erik levitates the coin up to circle his fingers again. "What is it?"

For one split second, Erik wants to snatch the coin in his hand and hide it away, or growl something about tokens and revenge and why does Charles think he is still here, but he does none of those things. Instead, he swallows and closes his eyes and allows himself to remember Schmidt's face and his words and the coin on the great big desk and the deafening explosion that silenced his mother forever. Then he shuts them away, the memories, and focuses on the coin again.

"Oh, Erik" Charles mumbles and turns around and he looks absolutely _destroyed_, causing a pang of guilt to hit Erik solidly in the chest.

"I'm sorry" he says, "I shouldn't have shown you that."

"Don't be sorry." Charles is climbing into bed now, pulling the cover up to his middle. Then, a moment later, tentatively, "can I see it?"

Erik flicks the coin towards Charles and tries not to think about how no one has ever touched it but him and Schmidt for the past fifteen years. Charles catches it midair and weighs it in his hand, turns it over.

"How come you couldn't lift it?"

It is a justified question, and one he did not know the answer to until many years later, much too late.

"It's almost pure silver" he replies, voice thick. "Silver's hardly magnetic at all, only the traces of other, lesser metals in it are."

Charles does not reply but releases the coin in the air. Erik catches it almost instantly and brings it back to his hand where it remains as they turn out their lights. Charles is asleep almost instantly, less than a foot away and still out of reach.

That night, he dreams about his mother. He screams for her and tears flood his cheeks when Charles' gentle voice hushes him and he can feel Charles holding him, embracing him. He lays there, shaking, and listens to the nonsense coming out of Charles' mouth until dawn breaks.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day's mission proves to be a failure. They are in D.C. and after having been rejected by a woman who controls water much in the same way Erik does metal, Charles says that he would like to take a break from the road. Erik is hardly surprised when they end up at the Lincoln Memorial. Somehow, he rather understands if Charles needs some encouragement after spending a night with the ghosts of the Holocaust. Whether the thought of civil war is any consolation though, Erik cannot say.

"…that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

The school teacher ceases to read and asks his students what they think it means. Charles has set up their portable chessboard on the steps below the monument and Erik joins him there, but none of them touch the pieces. The school class moves on and the monument is oddly empty, which is a relief as Erik cannot help but think that for all his good intentions, Lincoln's ambitions are still, a hundred years after his presidency, not realized.

But it is not only the black community that is still oppressed, he thinks. Difference frightens them, all the 'normal' humans. Charles can believe it all he likes, but the government will hardly welcome a mutant society into their world with open arms. Just as Charles will never welcome Erik into his arms, not during any other kind of situation than that of yesternight.

"I can't stop thinking about the others out there" Charles says, leaning back on the steps. "All those minds that I touched. I could feel them. Their isolation, their hopes, their ambitions. I tell you, we're at the start of something incredible, Erik. We can help them."

"Can we?" he replies, remembering the woman who turned them away only hours ago, face stark white with horror at their revelation, that she was a mutant, that there were others like her. Remembering so much more. "Identification, that's how it starts. And ends with being rounded up, experimented on, eliminated."

Charles sighs at him, at his cynicism – realism, as Erik sees it.

"Not this time" he says, self-assured. "We have common enemies. Shaw, the Russians. They _need_ us."

Erik refrains from pointing out that the Jews fought for Germany during the First World War, and then were wiped out during the second. He does not say that what is conceived as a threat today might not be a threat tomorrow, nor that what someone needs today, they might not need tomorrow as well. He simply says "for now" and Charles does not answer.

* * *

When they return to the base, the kids prove him right by having trashed their common room and the yard outside. They are not ready to face Schmidt, or anyone else for that matter, not only because they act like unsupervised five-year-olds and not only because they are untrained but because they cringe at Moira's scolding. It comes as no surprise to him, but Charles' evident disappointment does. The plane-ride to Russia is an unpleasant one, Charles locked deep in thought except for when Moira briefs them on the strategy. Erik does not lash out on her, even though he wants to. He does not trust her or the agency behind her, and he cannot help but think that it would have been better if it had only been him and Charles doing this. What use will the CIA be anyway?

His aversion towards her does not diminish when there is suddenly a roadblock stopping their truck (though Charles rescues the day with a mind trick he is later too exhausted to fully describe to Erik) and certainly not when she aborts the entire mission simply because Schmidt has decided not to show up. Really, she has no patience. Erik has spent fifteen years hunting down this man, and the woman who has now entered the Russian palace is more than he would have hoped for.

The base, for all its pomp and grandeur, is surrounded by crude metal. It is almost too easy to manipulate it and immobilize the soldiers – only knocking them out though, he holds no personal grudge towards them. All he needs is the woman in white – she who caught his knife with her hand and caused his mind to shatter and burn all at once.

Charles catches up with him inside the house, flustered and out of breath and, Erik realizes, _worried_. He does not scold Erik though, only nods up a staircase.

"This way, second bedroom to the right."

Cracking her diamond skin is intoxicating. The sound of it as it creaks under the metal vines of the bed is beautiful and she deserves no less after preventing him from exacting revenge on Schmidt, but Charles' voice bores its way through and he releases the grip on her throat. He can hardly breathe as he turns away from her and pours himself a drink from the sleeping officer's crystal decanter.

Unfortunately, her news are not of the good kind, and the plane-ride back is even more unpleasant than the first one. Charles is nervous and irritable, no doubt worried about his sister, and not even Moira dares to interrupt his thoughts. Not that she has the time to do so; she is almost constantly locked in communication with some CIA-base or other, trying to find out if something has already happened or when and where something might.

Two things are clear though: first, that there is nothing they can do here and now, and second, that it has been a very long day. Erik is tired but unable to fall asleep with Charles nervously fiddling with every object within reach, including pens, papers, books and armrests. He would probably be pacing the floor if there was enough space for it.

"Something's burning" Erik says suddenly, sniffing, and Charles reacts immediately, dropping the stack of papers he has been thumbing through and looking around the cabin, sniffing as well.

"I don't–" he begins, but Erik cuts him off.

"Oh, it's just you." This earns him a murderous glare from Charles, and despite it being quite fun, Erik does not smile. "Honestly Charles, try and stop thinking. You need to sleep."

He does, probably more so than Erik does, because Erik is used to five or six hours per night and Charles himself has admitted to needing at least eight and a half to function normally. He has not had that luxury the past two nights, the first of them with Erik's breakdown and the second on this very plane, a night filled with plans and schemes that have fallen rather short of their stated ambitions.

"Too bad then that I can't shut out my own thoughts" Charles says testily and closes his eyes before massaging his eyelids with thumb and forefinger. He sighs. "I can't stop."

"Did you try to think of something else?"

He is rewarded by another killing glare.

"Erik, if you are seriously suggesting that I count sheep or some other silly nursery room technique, I will quite enjoy picking your brain to bits until this aircraft touches ground."

"Tempting." Erik decides to store away the bit about a nursery room until a later date, and returns to the matter at hand instead. "No, no sheep, but I thought you might want to step inside, actually."

He waves one finger to indicate his own head, then closes his eyes and leans back into the seat. The rumble of the engines and the vibrations throughout the aircraft's body work their way into his mind and he feels them work, cogwheels and steam and burning oil, iron and steel and other variations of metal in smaller components. The lull is soothing, and he wonders if Charles is actually listening in when a completely different kind of sound reaches his ear.

Charles, who was sitting opposite him, has now taken the seat next to him and his hand reaches for Erik's, squeezing it gently upon finding it. His eyes are closed and he exhales slowly, and Erik says nothing but closes his eyes again and returns to the world of the machine and the steady beat and whoosh of the engines, bellows and tubes that are its heart and lungs and circulatory system.

Charles's hand remains in his until agent MacTaggert appears and wakes them up, announcing that they will be landing in ten minutes and that something serious has happened at the facility. His hand feels empty without Charles' in it, so he closes it to a fist as he listens to the news.

* * *

The car ride back to the facility is comparatively short, thankfully, since they spend it engaged in even more plans and tactical strategies than they did on their way to Russia. Erik tries to suggest that they should take a look at what has actually happened before deciding on a course of action, but Moira is too much a federal tool to dare to and Charles is all jitters and worry. He leaps out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop, running for his sister.

The others are there – all but Darwin and Angel – and for all that they look dusty and tousled and tired, they are alive and they are angry. He can sense it in almost the same way he can feel the exposed metallic structures in the demolished building: raw and burning and almost palpable.

And yet, Charles does not seem to notice.

"We've made arrangements for you to be taken home immediately" Charles says, and is genuinely astounded when Cassidy opposes him, as if he cannot believe his ears. But he must, Erik thinks, because there is such resolution in their voices, such determination. Charles might think he knows what is best for them to do, but they will not do it. They need closure and they will not be able to get that from a ceremony or from going back home.

"We can avenge him" Erik says, because he knows that is the answer. When nothing else can be done and no other road can be taken, that is where you go and that is what you do. They had not realized it yet, but the way they react when he says it tells him that they too know it now. Only Charles seems to disagree.

"Erik, a word, please."

Somehow, Erik doubts one word will be enough, but he comes along willingly enough.

"They're just kids" Charles says, not at all out of hearing distance from the others, repeating Erik's thoughts from last night. Only Erik no longer holds those thoughts.

"No" he replies, "they _were_ kids. Shaw has his army, we need ours."

And perhaps now, with the motivation of loss, they will be able to rise to the occasion. Charles is not convinced but he shifts and turns back to the others, eyeing them, assessing them, and comes to a decision.

"We'll have to train" he says, "all of us. Yes?"

"Yeah" Alex agrees, and there are nods all around, eagerness that was nowhere to be seen less than a day ago. For a moment, everything is fine – that is, until Hank points out that a wrecked CIA-facility is no place for them to stay.

"We have nowhere to go" he concludes, and while he was jesting in the airplane, this time Erik can almost feel Charles' mind working, trying the problem from every angle until he finds a solution.

Charles is all determination, it is there in his voice and in the set of his squared shoulders, as if facing an immense task.

"Yes we do."

* * *

Arrangements are hastily made: there is not a lot for them to pick up among the debris, and they are all soon on their way. Erik would have preferred if Moira had not been with them, but when Charles agreed with her that she should stay with them for the time being, Erik did not bother to argue. Nor does he argue when she refuses to let him drive, he simply sits himself down on the car seat and looks out the window. Raven tries to catch his attention once or twice, but then retracts. The boys are all quiet, which is quite an achievement considering their age and their constant goofing out otherwise, and they remain that way until, at Charles indication, Moira turns the car onto a smaller road, which then turns into a driveway. Towering over them is a castle of golden bricks and high windows, and all around them a strictly kept park as if this was indeed the old world of Mother England, rather than upstate New York.

"Honestly Charles" Erik remarks dryly, "I don't know how you survived, living in such hardship."

He cannot tell whether or not Charles is amused by this, he seems to be conflicted about his home. Raven is not though, and it is she who shows them around while Charles hides away in one of the many rooms. It is a castle, no matter that Raven calls it a mansion, and Erik is in awe of it despite himself. There is not a lot of metal here, stone and brick and wood and glass, all of it, but it has a familiar feel to it all the same. Everything, from the chairs and carpets and tables to the paintings and books and lamps, they all belong in this place. They seem to say that there will never be anything new under the sun, that they have already seen it all, and that they will somehow always be there to keep a watchful eye on the persons who step through the doors.

Raven assigns them to different rooms on the third floor and sets them all to make the beds and dust off the kitchen and common areas.

"What about your parents?" Hank asks as he inspects the empty refrigerator.

"No one lives here now" she replies, her tone so unusually casual that it is perfectly clear she is holding something back. "Or, at least no one did."

Erik leaves them to their work and goes off in search of Charles. He finds him in a study, hardly surprising, rummaging through stacks of binders, which seems a bit more uncharacteristic.

"Lost something?"

"No, I just…" He slams the binder shut, stacks it on top of three others and pulls a new one from another pile. "I just thought I should take a look on the blueprints. They should be- oh, here they are."

He releases several large papers from an envelope and unfolds them on top of the table, amidst the piled up binders. For a brief moment Erik wonders at the man who would rather watch his home from the distance of building plans, thin drawn lines of faded black ink on yellowed paper, than walk the halls and rooms and take them in, but as he steps forward to the desk he realizes that there is more to the house than just sitting rooms and fireplaces.

"What's _that?_" he asks, not bothering to mask his surprise and curiosity as he leans in on the paper to get a closer look at the drawings.

"A bunker" Charles replies calmly, without much more than a glance in the general direction of the sketched lines that form a large rectangle, some distance away from the basement of the house.

"A bunker. Is that why we're here? To hide from Shaw's A-bombs?"

"No, that's not why. It just happens to be there and it might be useful. For Alex to practice in" Charles adds as he looks up and intercepts Erik's glance. "I have to decide where we can place Hank's equipment. It'll have to be one of the larger rooms."

It will. Charles must have used at least some of his ability to ensure that Hank could take his laboratory equipment with them, because there is a ton of it expected the next day – and Erik doubts the CIA would willingly surrender so much valuable instruments to be shipped away from their own premises. On the other hand, it is quite possible that the instruments are useless without Hank there to operate them.

"It shouldn't be in the basement" Erik says and pulls out another sheet of paper. "Which room is this? I don't think Raven showed us this wing."

"Oh, that's the gallery. We never liked it."

"Why not?" It is impossible not to notice the use of 'we'.

"I suppose" Charles replies, deliberately slow, "because the prospect of being eyed judgingly by eight generations of MacIntoshes was never very appealing to us."

"MacIntosh?"

"My stepfather's name. My father died when I was four and my mother remarried within half a year. But the gallery might be good. It's not used for anything else and it's large enough."

It is not a very smooth change of subject and Erik decides to point that out by continuing on the beaten track.

"And Raven?"

"What about Raven?"

"Is she your half-sister then?"

For a few seconds, all is quiet. Charles looks at him with the most curious expression on his face, as if he does not know what to say.

"No" he says at last, and returns his attentions to the plans on the table. "And yes. Raven is my sister. I knew it the minute I saw her. But we're not related by blood."

Well, that is not a very divulging answer, is it? But then again, it kind of is.

"You don't feel at home here, do you?" Erik asks. "It's yours, but it's not your home."

"No. It's not."

Charles' voice is low and flat, and it is matter-of-factly enough to make Erik look away. For all the things he has lost: his childhood, his home, his family, there has always been a small comfort in knowing that he has had them. Unable to stop himself, Erik reaches out and places his hand on Charles' shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Maybe it will be" he says, and then exits the room.


	5. Chapter 5

The following days are filled with activity. Hank spends every waking hour in his newly erected lab and Erik stays away from it. He finds himself unoccupied, which is strange to say the least. Charles is mostly busy with Alex and Cassidy, instilling in them his mantra that their abilities are just like any other muscle, something they can control and direct, and despite a few bumps and wrong turns, he seems to be successful. There is laughter and jokes round the dinner table, a growing confidence which, in his own way, Erik tries to give Raven as well.

It is not so much about her ability though, he has no idea how she does it and doubts she could improve it by any other means than practice, but that is not what concerns him. It is that while she is, in a way, constantly practicing and is very confident about her shape-shifting, she has almost no confidence in herself. That, he knows from experience, is a lethal weakness, and so he tells her what she needs to hear. She is intelligent enough to work the rest out on her own.

Only in the late evenings does he get the chance to sit down with Charles and talk. They play chess, often evenly matched, and as they move their pieces across the board, all the little and all the big things going on in and outside the house (as Charles insists on calling it) are discussed and dealt with. It is then, when their match is drawing to a close and Charles swallows the last of his whisky in an attempt to stall the moment when he must decide on his next move, that Erik wants to catch Charles' hand in the air and rise from his chair and find out what scotch tastes like on those lips, but he never acts on it. He studies the move finally made, and makes his own.

Charles is a great tactician, but as naïve in strategy as he is in life, often unprepared when Erik sacrifices one of his pieces in order to take one of Charles in the next or the one after that. That unwillingness to place his pieces in obvious danger is an endearing personal trait, and possibly a good thing in a leader, but it is also naïve innocence of one who has never seen or been in battle. Someone who does not know the true face of war.

One morning, after a night of particularly vicious nightmares, he seeks Charles out after his morning run.

"You said we all need to train" he says when Charles asks him what this is about and they walk out to the terrace overlooking the grassy fields below. "I need it too."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I want you to shoot me."

"What?" Charles takes a step back but Erik follows him and presses the gun into Charles' hands, forcing him to take it. "Shoot you?"

"Yes. Come on."

"Why, for Christ's sake? Isn't there anything else you could do?"

"Like what, take apart a car and put it back together again? Large and slow objects are one thing, but bullets are small and fast."

"My point exactly" Charles says pointedly, but sighs and raises the gun. It is not the first time, Erik notices, but the movements are reluctant. The barrel is cool against his skin, hard, but Charles' hand is trembling.

"You're sure" he says, but there is a question mark hanging there, in the set line of his mouth, that all but screams that Charles thinks this is a stupid-ass idea.

"I'm sure" Erik says, bracing himself. He must deflect the bullet before it touches him, but not until it has made its way out of the gun, or it will most probably backfire and hurt both Charles and himself.

"All right" Charles says and takes a deep breath. He then closes his eyes, tenses – and drops the gun. "No. No, I can't, I'm sorry. I can't shoot anybody point blank, let alone my friend."

"Oh come on" Erik grumbles and grabs Charles' hand, raising it to his head again. "You know I can deflect it. And you're always telling me I should push myself."

Charles pulls away again and now his voice is almost desperate as he lashes out: "If you know you can deflect it, then you're _not_ challenging yourself!"

He makes a noise of frustration, struggling for words.

"Whatever happened to the man who was- who was trying to raise a submarine?" he asks and hands the gun back.

"Well, I can't. Something that big? I need the situation, the anger…"

"No, the anger is not enough."

"It's gotten the job done all this time" Erik points out, but he can feel his own resignation as he speaks the words, the tiredness, because he _is _tired. Tired to the bone of being angry, of always and constantly reliving the worst moments of his life just to keep on going.

"It's nearly gotten you killed all this time" Charles responds, and damn him, he is right about that. Then, Charles gives him a gentle slap on the shoulder and nods towards the edge of the terrace, from where you can see the grassy pastures spreading out in front of the mansion. "Hey, come here. Let's try something a little more challenging. See that?"

Amidst all the trees and fields, there is only one thing Charles could possibly be referring to: a parabolic antenna, a huge white-gray dish of metallic compounds that is as much a sore spot in the green landscape as it is a pulsating presence in Erik's mind.

"Try turning it to face us."

Erik looks at it, then at Charles, but says nothing. Charles is serious about this. He wants Erik to make that gigantic structure of tons and tons of steel and other metals turn some ninety degrees, from this distance, and while Erik would love to prove that he can, he fails to see how he will manage even to budge it.

He braces himself, raises his hands to try and increase the connection between him and the metal. However Charles wishes to describe his ability it is not only telekinetic, he can shape it and enhance it with his hands – but to no avail. He focuses all his energy on that bright spot in the distance, tries to bring it to him as he would with any other object, but the metal merely cringes, still securely locked in its position.

Erik drops his hand. He is shaking, his body convulsing with the effort, and he struggles for breath. The dish is still there, taunting in the periphery of his ability, out of reach.

"You know…" Charles says, "I believe that true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity."

Erik raises his head to meet Charles' eyes, still panting from the excursion, unable to grasp what Charles is saying.

"Would you mind if I…?"

Charles gestures with his fingers to his temple, wiggles them a little as if to say that he does not really know what he is trying either, and truth is, Erik does not mind. He shakes his head, too out of breath to say something in the likes of "you're welcome" or "make yourself at home", though both of those sentiments feel accurate, what with Charles dropping in and out of his head every other day, and Charles closes his eyes.

To say that he can feel the other man in there would be a lie. There is nothing about his mind that betrays Charles' entering it. Nothing, except the slow but steady reminiscence of something warm and bright and peaceful, something buried deeply within. It is as if he is suddenly far, far away, watching his mother light their candelabra. Small flickering lights and the smell of melting candle wax is all around him, and his mother smiles, her hand soft and dry against his cheek, a whiff of bread and butter lingering on her skin.

The vision fades almost as quickly as it appeared, but he remembers it clearly and his eyes are filled with tears. In the past twenty years, whenever he has recalled his mother's face, he has remembered her pain and fear and her well-intentioned, but hardly comforting assurances, and the absolute silence that settled after she was shot. He has seen it so many times, in memory and in dreams, that all other expressions that she must have had, have seemed lost to him. And now…

"What did you just do to me?"

Charles comes closer and leans on the parapet. There are traces of tears on his cheeks as well.

"I accessed the brightest corner of your memory system" Charles says, and then hesitates, as if there are more things to say. They come at last, a few moments later. "It's a very beautiful memory Erik. Thank you."

"I didn't know I still had that" Erik replies, shaking his head slightly, because while _no, thank you_, is what he would like to say, it seems so very, horribly wrong.

"There's so much more to you than you know" Charles says, and his voice is impossibly soft. "Not just pain and anger. There's good too, I felt it."

_There is also love, and passion_. Charles's words from that first night in the facility seems simultaneously like a distant memory and something recently spoken, and Erik tries to remind himself that he does not believe in salvation.

"When you can access all of that" Charles continues, voice still low and earnest "you'll possess a power no one can match. Not even me."

For a brief instant, Erik can feel his resolve falter and his shields drop and all he wants to do is find the same solace in Charles that once, in what seems like another lifetime, he would find in his mother's embrace. Then, Charles gives him another encouraging clap on the shoulder.

"So, come on. Try again."

And Erik does.

He turns again to the parabolic antenna and reaches out for it with his hand, imagines his hand grip the dish and turn it and he remembers the memory of his mother's touch on his cheek and knows that Charles is right there next to him, and he believes, for the first time in forever, that he is not a monster, that he is not alone, and that not all the warmth and light and goodness are gone from his life.

And it turns. Slowly, creaking with effort, the structure yields to his pull and turns to face them like a flower turning to the sun and he laughs. The sheer lunacy of it all, the incredibility of what he has just done, washes over him like waves and he cannot help but laugh: at himself, at Charles' belief in him, in all the satellite communication he has completely fucked up, and it is all just relief, and Charles laughs with him, his hand on Erik's back again.

"Well done."

Moira, of course, chooses this moment to yell at them from the house, about the president, and while that might be important, Erik cannot quite take his eyes from the dish. He wipes his face, to clear away the tears or the laughter he does not know, and Charles gives him another encouraging pat and heads towards the house. He wishes they could have shared this moment a little while longer, but shakes his head and takes a deep breath. This is more than he could have ever hoped for or even imagined, and while this is still not salvation, it is pretty damn close.


	6. Chapter 6

One thing is made perfectly clear by the presidential address: their vacation slash training camp is over. The rest of the day disappears in a sort of crazed frenzy, with most of the gang flitting back and forth in the house not knowing what to do but too riled up to just sit down and relax. Moira and Hank are the only ones to actually do anything: Hank jogs off to the lab mumbling something to himself about equipment and suits, and Moira makes phone calls. Charles disappears and Erik decides to take a shower and wait for more information.

Information comes at dinner time, or at least that is when Charles reappears and they can begin to discuss their strategy for the following day. After about an hour there are still many question marks they have been unable to straighten out, but at least there is a common understanding of how they should go about trying to achieve their goal: getting Shaw into custody.

Erik says very little, at least until he and Charles settles down in the library. Ostensibly, they are playing chess, in reality, they argue.

"Shaw has declared war on mankind, on all of us. He has to be stopped."

"I'm not going to stop Shaw" Erik replies, "I'm going to kill him. Do you have it in you to allow that?"

Charles does not look very pleased, in fact, he is frowning. A few moments pass during which he says nothing, but then snorts and shifts in his armchair, as if trying to dismiss what Erik has just told him.

"You've known all along why I was here, Charles" Erik reminds him, as Charles wrings his hands. "But things have changed. What started as a covert mission, tomorrow, mankind will know that mutants exist. Shaw, us, they won't differentiate. They'll fear us. And that fear will turn to hatred."

Charles grey eyes are practically radiating his disagreement, but his voice as he replies is cautious.

"Not if we stop a war. Not if we can prevent Shaw. Not if we risk our lives doing so."

"Would they do the same for us?" Erik retorts.

Humans are not like that – they are not open-minded or tolerant or liberal. They are scared. They place themselves at the top of the food chain, but finds strength in numbers and fears anything that does not belong within the group. There might not be torches and pitchforks, but there are many, many other ways of ostracizing and hurting those who do not fit within the standards of normalcy, and Erik knows that everyone in this house (with the natural exception of Moira) knows from firsthand experience just how much hurt humans cause in their fear of everything different.

But Charles refuses to give in.

"We have it in us to be the better men" he says.

"We already _are_. We're the next stage of human evolution, you've said it yourself!"

"No." Charles' protest is evasive and he takes a big gulp of his scotch instead of arguing his point further, so Erik seizes the opportunity.

"Are you really so naïve as to think that they won't battle their own extinction? Or is it arrogance?"

This causes some reaction.

"I'm sorry?" The words full of indignation.

"After tomorrow, they're going to turn on us. But you're blind to it, because you believe they're all like Moira."

"You believe they're all like Shaw." Charles' voice is hardly more than a whisper. "Listen to me very carefully, my friend. Killing Shaw will not bring you peace."

He was wrong. Charles does not understand. He does not even begin to understand.

"Peace was never an option."

"How can you say that?" Exasperation – the chess game all but forgotten now.

"Because it's true. You might have a choice Charles, but I don't!" He pulls up his sleeve to the elbow, index finger pointing at the numbers permanently scrawled on his skin. "Not just because of my mother or father or myself, but because of _everyone_ who were branded and tortured and murdered, simply because they were different."

He pulls the sleeve back down and rises from the armchair, sighs impatiently. Charles is quiet and does not look at him, merely stares ahead, jaws clenched tightly together.

"Not only Jews" Erik says after a second or two of strained silence. "Romani. Poles. Communists. Liberals. In Britain, Germans. Here, Japanese. In Japan, Brits and Americans. Whatever the nation feared, it was identified, isolated. That's not Nazism, it's racism. How you can believe that the same fear will not be aimed at us is beyond me to understand, but I'm telling you: it will happen, and I will at least have the satisfaction of killing Shaw before we have to face the rest of humanity and fight for our survival."

He leaves the room then. Charles calls out his name but he does not stop or slow down. It should feel like winning, like a perfect, triumphant check mate, but it does not. He feels like he has lost, and lost far more than a game.

* * *

When he arrives to his room, Raven is there.

"Well, this is a surprise."

"The nice kind?" she asks sweetly, comfortably wrapped up in his bed sheets but clearly naked underneath them, posing suggestively.

"Get out Raven, I want to go to bed. Maybe in a few years."

He crosses the room to the desk by the window, back turned to her.

"How about now?"

Her voice is different and when he turns to her, she has shifted. This form looks older, more mature, but that is only looks. _She_ has not changed.

"I prefer the real Raven" he replies simply, and she shifts in front of his eyes, looking pleased with herself – an expression that alters instantly when he repeats: "I said, the real Raven."

Her shift now is much slower, hesitant, and when she looks at him she is not pleased or coy – she looks young and vulnerable and shy.

"Perfection."

She looks down, away, embarrassed.

"Would you pass me my robe?" she says, and her voice is trembling.

"You don't have to hide." He leaves the robe where it is hanging, draped across the back of a chair, and sits down on the bed beside her. This is what he has been trying to tell her all along, these are the words she needs to hear and a truth she needs to believe in. "Have you ever looked at a tiger and thought you ought to cover it up?"

She smiles, an insecure and shy smile, and shakes her head.

"No, but…"

"You're an exquisite creature Raven" he interrupts her. "All your life, the world has tried to tame you. It's time for you to be free."

And despite the fact that he feels nothing for her other than protectiveness and awe of her unique ability, he leans in to kiss her, and she meets his lips with her own. Hers is the kiss of a child, ravenous and innocent all at the same time, and he can feel her pulse underneath his fingertips. Then, he breaks away and seals her lips shut with his thumb.

"Go to your own bed now. I'll see you tomorrow."

She does. Without a word of protest she slides out of the bed, still shy about her exposed body, darts a look at him, and then leaves the room, softly closing the door behind her. Erik sighs and gets up from the bed to change out of his clothes and into his pajama pants. The house is mostly silent, it is late and tomorrow's early rising means that even Alex and Cassidy must have gone to bed by now, though Erik has doubts about whether they are actually sleeping yet. For his own part, he feels positively drained.

He cannot seem to fall asleep though. He tries to read the book he borrowed from the library the first night of their stay here, but the words slip from his mind as soon as he has read them, so he puts it away again. In the end, he takes out the small silver Reichsmark.

There was one thing he did not mention to Charles. One group of people for whom, more than any group, he must kill Shaw.

The other children.

He had not known of them then, had only years later heard about them and figured the rest of it out by himself. Not only Jewish children, like himself, but German children as well as French, Romani… "Asocials" they had been called, boys and girls and adults as well, used for research and experiments, killed during those scientific trials or by the scientists, to erase their tracks as they went into hiding. Somewhere along the way he realized that he had been one of those children, and now he knew, with that certainty that cannot be explained, only felt, that some of those children had been like him. Mutants.

The door swings open and hits the wooden panel on the wall with a pang.

"What did you do?" Charles demands, gray eyes furious as he bursts into the room. "What did you do to her?"

It is obvious who he is referring to, even with the darkness of the night and the weight of sleep on Erik's mind – it is not Moira. He has no idea what Raven has done or said to make Charles act like this, but she has clearly done _something_.

"I spoke to her" he answers, hiding the coin in the palm of his hand. "Would you mind? I'm trying to get some sleep."

"Ha!" Charles sounds disbelieving to say the least. "And am I supposed to think that you talked about roses and puppies, huh?"

"No. I said that she is beautiful in her own right and that she shouldn't be afraid to show it to the world, though not exactly in those words."

This is probably not the best thing to say to an over-protective person like Charles, Erik realizes. Especially not since, to Charles' mind surely, that kind of smooth-talking resulted in his sister walking around naked.

"You _what_?!"

Charles all but spits out the second word and Erik decides that the best thing he can do, for the rest of the house at least, is to get out of bed and close the door – so he does.

"Less than an hour ago you said yourself that as soon as humans see us for what we are, they'll fear us and hunt us down! And yet you encourage Raven to expose herself to that? Why, for heaven's sake?"

"Why should she hide?" Erik snaps back. "She is beautiful, Charles. Unique and strong and capable, yet you treat her like some secret comfort blanket, something that should be tucked away and cared for. You call yourself her brother: you should be the one to tell her these things!"

Charles looks as if he wants to reply, but Erik continues – it is as if they are right back where they were not an hour ago, in the library, and it is awful.

"You show off your powers, Charles, and you encourage everyone else to do the same, to control them and improve – and Raven should show off as well. She should be showing everyone how amazing she is, every minute of every day, and she should be accepted for it. But you can't do that, can you Charles? And if you can't stand to see her as she is, then you don't deserve to call yourself her brother."

He stops talking and swallows. Charles is quiet, still and silent as a statue, until what seems like an eon later, he sits down on the bed and buries his face in his hands. Erik stares at him, not knowing what to think or do.

"I tried to _protect_ her." Charles' voice is muffled, but not, Erik thinks, by tears. Emotion, yes, but not tears. "All my life I have tried to protect her. Because you're right, Erik, aren't you bloody always right? She is different, and people would hurt her because of it. And I can't let that happen."

"It's not up to you" Erik says, and he takes a few steps forward and kneels on the floor in front of Charles. "It's her decision what she wants to do."

"And if she gets hurt? Am I supposed to just stand idly by?"

"No, you hit that fuck who hurt her in the face, and then in the balls. Or hold him down while Raven does it, I think she would find more satisfaction in it than you would."

Charles actually chuckles at that, a tiny laughing sound, and he wipes at his eyes.

"She probably would" he agrees. "Yeah, she would."

Right then, it is all Erik can do to keep himself from not leaning in to kiss Charles, push him down on the bed and make him his. With considerable mental effort, he pushes the thoughts away and makes to rise from his kneeling position, but Charles' sudden grip on his hands stop him abruptly.

"Why won't you do it?" Charles asks. "You always speak your mind, you take what you want – why not now? Why not this?"

"Stay out of my mind, Charles" Erik says, surprised at the growl in his voice, but then again, not really. He feels stripped to the bone and damn if he will let Charles take advantage of his thoughts like that!

"Why? What are you so afraid of?" Charles demands, voice loud.

"Just do it!"

"Well it's not like I have a chance, is it, with you projecting like a bloody-"

"STAY OUT OF MY HEAD!"

Erik's shove hits him square in the chest and Charles, unprepared for such a blow, falls backwards onto the bed. However, with his hands on Erik's arms, he pulls Erik down with him and they collapse on the bed with shared _oufs_. Quick as thought, Charles moves his hands from Erik's arms and puts them on either side of his face instead. The palms are warm but their hold is firm.

"Stop thinking" Charles says, but the stern tone of his voice is subdued as he continues: "just do."

And then Charles does. He kisses Erik and he does it hungrily, and after a second, Erik responds. Charles' lips are hot against his and there is warm breath and a hint of smoky whisky and something undeniably _Charles_ as the kiss deepens. Charles's hands on his shoulders and neck, his own hands in Charles dark hair and not a sound but panting breath and the rustling of bed clothes in the dark of the night: he could stay like this all through the night, drinking in all that Charles has to give until they are both emptied and limp – but then Charles pushes him away.

"We don't have the luxury of time" he says, and his eyes are like dark beads, drunk. "We've got to give it our best game tomorrow, don't you think?"

And he sits up in the bed and Erik moves aside so as not to be in the way, and Charles gets to his feet and pats Erik's shoulder as he does so.

"Tomorrow" he says again, and it is not a promise and not fully a premonition of impending doom, and he walks out of the room.

For the longest time, Erik just sits there on the bed. It takes hours before he finally falls asleep, still with the memory of Charles's mouth imprinted on his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning it is as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Erik is careful not to let anything of confusion or sleep-deprivation show and Charles gives no sign of having anything other than catching Shaw on his mind. The only thing that is changed, at least above the surface, is Raven. She smiles when she sees him, and he manages to return her smile. After that, it is all business – everyone is tense and tries to mentally prepare for all the things they can imagine will or may happen.

Besides from Hank's drastic change in appearance and Erik's resultant severely bruised neck, there are hardly any surprises until they close in on the stated embargo line near Cuba. They have not exactly talked during the flight, despite the headsets that make the words audible when else they would have been drowned out by the noise. Nothing other than the most necessary instructions, some strained attempts at jokes from Cassidy, but otherwise nothing.

"I can see them now" Hank says from the cockpit, maneuvering the aircraft deftly in spite of his physical change. "It looks pretty messy out there."

Erik, of course, cannot see it very clearly from his seat in the middle of the plane, but he can imagine it. Opposite him, Charles closes his eyes and assumes that position and expression of concentration which Erik knows means that he is using his abilities to try and gain some information that Hank's instruments cannot pick up. Only a few moments pass before he opens his eyes again, and he grimaces.

"The crew of the Aral Sea are all dead. Shaw's been there."

"He's still here, somewhere" Erik replies, because there is simply no chance in hell that that man would not stay for the finale.

"He's set the ship on course for the embargo line."

Moira, with her excellent timing, chooses this moment to enter the conversation.

"If that ship crosses the line, our boys are going to blow it up, and the war begins" she says, much like someone who explains that one plus one always equals two and that there is simply no way of it ever being otherwise.

Charles, however, is a bit more flexible.

"Unless they're not our boys" he says and closes his eyes again. No more than ten seconds later, the entire aircraft is beeping in alarm and Hank makes the plane spin round and round, the force of gravitation pulling at their bodies in all directions. Somewhere outside of the plane, a loud boom echoes across the waters.

"A little warning next time, Professor?" Hank says, sounding not nearly as distressed by the close encounter as Erik thinks he should be.

"Sorry about that" Charles says, then looks around. "You all right?"

"Yeah" Cassidy says, and Raven nods.

"That was inspired, Charles" Moira says from her co-pilot seat.

"Thank you very much, but I still can't locate Shaw."

"He's down there" Erik says, and he can hear his own voice steady and harsh with conviction. "We need to find him now."

"Hank?" Charles tries, but Hank passes the question on to Moira: "Is there anything unusual on the radar or scanners?"

"No, nothing" she replies.

"Well, then they must be underwater. And obviously, we don't have sonar."

Erik sighs, though a colorful curse would have been nice. If they cannot find Shaw, how are they supposed to catch him?

"Yes, we do."

The voice belongs to Cassidy, and a split second later, Charles echoes him, catching Erik's eye. Unbuckling themselves from their seat, they tumble side by side towards the latch in the aircraft floor. The kid has got some nerves, to opt to try and fly among these trigger-happy armies with their missiles. On the other hand, he survived the fall from the satellite dish without so much as a scrape.

"Hank, level the bloody plane!" Charles is shouting, his headset discarded by the seats, and Hank must have heard him because the aircraft floor stays more or less below their feet.

"Whoa!" Cassidy says as he sees Erik approach him. "You back right off!"

Erik raises his hands in the universal gesture of non-violence and takes a step back: perhaps there is no need for a push this time.

"Beast, open the bomb bay doors!"

The floor tiles of the latch gives way in front of them and only now that they can see the silvery ocean underneath does it really strike Erik how fast the plane is going. He does not envy Cassidy in the least.

"Remember" Charles is instructing, yelling to be heard over the roaring sound of the engines and the wind, "this is a muscle! You control it! You'll be in here the entire time!"

Cassidy seems to be equally decided and terrified, and barely even nods in acknowledgement to Charles' words.

"We'll see you soon!" Charles continues. "On my mark: three, two, one – go!"

Cassidy woops and falls, the sound of his shriek audible even in the airplane for a few brief moments, and Charles holds on to the plane and closes his eyes. It is not long before he relays the information: "Banshee's got a location on Shaw."

This is the moment they have been waiting for, in case Shaw stayed under water, but all the waiting in the world does not equal the knowledge that you are up for a difficult task. Erik knows this and Charles knows it as well, and he steps closer to Erik now, locking Erik's eyes with his own.

"Are you ready for this?"

"Let's find out."

They leave the bomb bay doors and head to the front of the plane again. Hank is slowing down and releases the landing gear, which Erik climbs and holds onto as he searches the water underneath them for the magnetic pulse of metal that would signal the presence of a submarine.

He finds it.

In spite of the masses of water between he can feel the enormity of the vessel, the weight of metal lurking down there, and every fiber of his being is screaming at him that it is too much, that he can never budge it even a little bit, and still he reaches out his hand to try.

It hurts.

His heart is beating furiously in his chest and he can feel the pressure inside his head and he just cannot seem to _grab_ the damn boat. Then, he hears Charles. Not shouting from above, but inside Erik's head, calm and confident. _Remember, the point between rage and serenity._

And just like that, that is where he is. Rather than remembering his mother though, it is as if he sees all those tiny components that make him into who he is, feels every emotion and knows every thought he has ever had, and it is no longer a question of whether or not he can raise the submarine. He _can_ and he _will_ and he _does_.

Slowly he feels it yield to him and he pulls it closer, upwards. It is a majestic sight, its streamlined body of shimmering steel covered by millions and millions of water-drops, caught mid-air, and it is as if the weight of it is on his mind, but Charles is still there somehow, not really doing anything but just being there, and it is working. _I did it. I'm doing it. I can't believe it, I'm actually-_

From the corner of his eyes, he can see the hatch on the topside of the submarine open. It is not Shaw and he cannot give whoever it is any thought. His hold on the massive vessel is delicate and if he drops his concentration for even the slightest of moments, he might not be able to catch it again, and Shaw will get away. Something is changing though, or rather, the person on the submarine is. In an instant he is gone from sight, obscured by something that can be described only as a whirlwind. It is picking up speed and while it does not really alter the connection between him and the submarine, it makes it harder for him to remain standing on the landing gear as it moves toward the aircraft and him.

"Erik, take my hand!" Charles yells from above and behind, but Erik cannot break off, cannot let go, and the wind hits them. He grabs for the landing gear so as not to fall down into the water, and that is all it takes. The connection between him and the submarine is severed. He throws his hand out into the air again, trying to raise the vessel, but the aircraft swerves violently in the wind and he cannot seem to find the focus again. The submarine crashes onto the sandy beach of a small island, and Erik clings to the landing gear so as not to fall off it as the plane crashes downward. It is falling to pieces, he hears and feels it, hot metal straining under the pressure of wind and water, spiraling down from the sky like a wounded bird.

"ERIK, TAKE MY HAND!"

Erik does: he has no other option. He leaps off the landing gear, upwards toward the hatch, and Charles catches him. They struggle together but then Charles manages to pull Erik up and into the plane, moments before it hits the ground with a deafening crash and rolls around on the sandy beach. Charles loses his balance and falls down, hitting his head on the metallic floor. Erik throws himself over him, pressing Charles against the metal and attaching himself to it, keeping them both from slamming against the walls of the plane as it rolls round and round. Finally, with a loud screech, it comes to a stop.

Exhaling, Erik moves his hands from the floor, mimicking the arch of the walls as he lowers them to the roof of the upturned plane. Charles grunts, and shifts, grimacing. He must have hit his head pretty hard, but there is no time for examinations or first aid. They get to their feet, exchanging no more than a glance, and then Charles takes off towards the cockpit.

"Moira! Moira, are you all right?" he asks as he tumbles toward the agent, and Erik cannot help but notice the worry in his voice. Erik helps the others out of their seats and then they gather by the broken windows, all looking to the stranded submarine which lays eerily still on the beach.

"I read the teleporter's mind" Charles says, looking pale but focused. "Shaw is drawing all the power out of his sub: he's turning himself into some kind of nuclear bomb."

"We've got no time" Moira fills in, shrill voice easily audible among the dull throbbing sounds of the plane breaking piece by infinitesimal small piece. "The Geiger count is going out of control."

"Moira, this is what we're going to do: get on the radio and tell them to clear both fleets out immediately."

"I'm going in" Erik informs them, and no one argues with him. Three figures have stepped out of the submarine, one of them Angel.

"Beast, Havoc, back him up" Charles continues his instructions. "Erik, I can guide you through once you're in, but I need you to shut down whatever it is that's blocking me, then we just hope to God it's not too late for me to stop him."

"Got it."

"Good luck!"

The plane has broken into two major pieces and leaving it constitutes of taking no more than a few steps, and then they are outside. The air is heavy with smells of saltwater and burning gas, and no sooner have they come into view of Shaw's pawns than Alex fires his beams at the suit-clad fuck with the whirlwinds. Erik pays little attention to what happens next, the other two can take care of themselves well enough, and heads for the submarine. Taking out whirlwind-guy a second time does not cause any trouble and with a flick of his wrist, Erik has burst open the submarine's hull and enters it.

_Erik, make for the middle of the vessel. That's the point my mind can't penetrate. We have to assume that that's where Shaw is._

He agrees with this assessment and goes down a narrow corridor, which brings him to what must be the sub's control center. Panels full of monitors and buttons cover the walls and at the end of the room there is a large door – closed, of course – and beside it, a large control panel.

_That's the nuclear reactor. Disable it._

Somehow, he would have thought that disabling a reactor of any kind would be difficult. Not true, it turns out, if the lever marked "Reactor open / Reactor closed" is anything to go by. And, surprisingly enough, something of the charged humming decreases. Next to him, the door swings open, revealing a furnished room.

_Erik, you're there. You've reached the void._

"He's not here Charles!" Erik says out loud, too frustrated to only think the words as he takes in the sofas and the paintings and tables, books neatly stacked in rows in the walls. "Shaw's not here! He's left the sub!"

_What? He's got to be there, he has to be!_ Even in Erik's mind, Charles' voice seems distressed. What's going on out there?_ There's nowhere else he can be! Keep looking!_

"And I'm telling you he's not! There's no one here, God damn it!"

But he is there. Suddenly, Erik just knows it – before he hears the hiss of the sliding wall panels behind him, before the man utters a single syllable, he just knows.

"Erik" the all too familiar voice says, slick and smooth. "What a pleasant surprise. So good to see you again."

_Erik? Erik! _

He wears some sort of helmet but is otherwise immaculately dressed, not a crease in his shirt despite the wrecked state of the entire submarine. He makes no gesture to Erik, no invitation, but Erik steps into the small chamber anyway. It is covered with mirrors – perhaps that is what keeps Charles out, like the diamond-like skin on the other telepath. In there, the image of Shaw and himself multiplies beyond count, as if they were standing inside a giant prism, but it is quiet. No echoes, only his own soft steps and Shaw's deceitful voice.

"May I ask you something?" he says, as if they were old friends. "Why are you on their side? Why fight for a doomed race who will hunt us down as soon as they realize their reign is coming to an end?"

Erik answers with his fist, but as soon as his knuckles connect with Shaw's jaw, he knows something is very, very wrong. It is as if all the power from his punch is drained from him and his hand bounces back. Shaw looks utterly unaffected, and not a hint of Charles listening in. Is it the mirrors, or has something gone wrong out there?

"I'm sorry for what happened in the camps" Shaw says, and even though the helmet and the blue light of the chamber makes his face look like nothing more than a skull, he somehow manages to sound sincere. "I truly am."

Erik finds no words. Shaw reaches out his hand and sends Erik flying through the air. The crash of the mirrored wall echoes in cracks throughout his body, his head throbbing as he falls down on the floor.

_Erik, whatever you're doing, keep doing it! It's starting to work!_

So, the mirrors _are_ blocking Charles. But there is no way Erik can just start smashing the mirrors to pieces: that would be too obvious.

"But everything I did, I did for you" Shaw continues conversationally, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. As if throwing people into walls is no more than a pat on the back, or a kind word. Erik knows this deceptive calm, knows it only too well. "To unlock your power, to make you embrace it."

Another light touch and Erik crashes into another wall, arms over his face to shield himself from the mirror shards that are raining down on him.

_It's working!_ Charles' voice is clear and triumphant. _I'm starting to see him but I can't yet touch his mind._

Everything hurts, but Erik is too familiar with pain to let it keep him down on the floor. He struggles to his feet, taking comfort in the sudden feeling of metal emanating from the shattered walls. Maybe the mirrors are not only blocking Charles, but himself as well, throwing his own power back at him whenever he reaches out with it. Well, not for much longer.

"You've come a long way from bending gates. I'm so proud of you."

Reaching out with his own mind, Erik finds what he is looking for, and brings it down. The iron bar shots through the wall, hitting Shaw in the head. The broken mirror exposes more metal and Erik brings it into the chamber, smashing more mirrors, releasing even more metal. He pushes it towards Shaw, makes it keep the man cornered and away from Erik – there is a limit to how thorough a beating he is willing to take.

Shaw is undisturbed by the destruction, as undisturbed by it as he has ever been by anything. Oh, to wipe that grin from his face – preferably with the stupid helmet that for some reason does not ping on Erik's metal-scale. Oh… perhaps not only the mirrors then, but how the hell to get his hands on it…

"And you're just starting to scratch the surface. Think how much further we could go… together." A huge I-beam lies suspended in the air between them: as Shaw moves forward, Erik pushes at the beam with all his power and it bends willingly enough, but then with every step Shaw takes, it straightens out again and then bends the other way, nailing Erik to the wall like a pinned insect.

That is what he feels like, what he has always felt like whenever Shaw has been concerned. A specimen, something strange and curious to be studied and provoked: what will it do next, how will it react? The beam is pushing at his ribs and Shaw is so close to him now, still talking, his hand on the back of Erik's head, like a caress, a lover's touch.

"I don't want to hurt you, Erik" he says, his voice hoarser now. "I never did. I want to help you."

Always so suave, always such well-chosen words. They send shivers all over Erik's body as thousands of memories hit him, like an enormous wave of all the things no one should ever have to feel spilling over him, flooding every cell of his being. He swallows, all his energy focused on keeping the beam from crushing him, and he wonders if Charles is listening in. He should be, should be privy to all the thoughts and emotions rushing through Erik's mind right now, but says nothing. Not a word to help or strengthen Erik though this is the moment when he desperately needs it.

"This is our time. Our age. We are the future of the human race." And he is right, damn him, Erik agrees whole-heartedly. "You and me, son. The world could be ours."

This, Erik knows, is where he is supposed to give an answer. His lips are dry so he wets them, struggling for words, the right words, and reaches tentatively out with his power, searching, searching – finding.

"Everything you did made me stronger" he says, and he feels like a child, repeating a school assignment. "It made me the weapon I am today. It's the truth. I've known it all along."

He dares to look at Shaw then, and the man is practically glowing with delight: the same wicked pleasure that any predator would show if their prey surrendered willingly. Only, Shaw is not only a predator, and Erik is not prey. He is what he was made into.

"You are my creator."

The split-end cord manages to snatch the helmet away and Shaw whirls around, trying desperately to reach it, but fails, because "NOW CHARLES!" and Shaw stops mid-motion, a living, breathing, petrified statue of a man.

Relieved from the pressure of Shaw's power, the I-beam becomes easier to shift and Erik allows it to fall to the floor, then circles the man so that they stand face to face. There are small shivers of movement in Shaw's body, like ripples, and Erik assumes that the man is fighting against Charles' mental control. It is a matter of time and time only, and there is something he has to do. To do it though, he cannot let Charles stay in his mind, and risk Charles finding out and stopping him.

He takes the helmet and feels the weight of it in his hands. It must be some kind of metal, but there is nothing magnetic about it, not a single tiny fragment.

"Sorry, Charles" he says, lifting the helmet. Charles' response is immediate.

_Erik, please. Be the better man!_

"It's not that I don't trust you", _I just can't let you stop me._

_Erik, there will be no turning back!_

And then, just like that, as soon as he feels the helmet on his head, he cannot hear Charles anymore. But Charles can see him, probably, through Shaw's eyes: see what Shaw sees, hear what he hears, feel what he feels. And that is horrible, but it is equally necessary.

Erik takes a few steps forward, toward Shaw's outstretched hand, and leans into it, mimicking the man's caress earlier. As if they were indeed father and son, or lovers.

"If you're in there" he says, addressing the man whom he has hunted across continents for years and years, "I'd like you to know that I agree with every word you said. We are the future."

With a swift movement, he takes the coin from the pocket of his flying suit, feeling the cool weight of it in his hand.

"But" he says and turns around, stepping away from the man whose existence has been the reason for Erik's own survival, "unfortunately, you killed my mother."

He turns to face Shaw again and displays the silver coin. Shaw's face, still so much like a skull, is almost without expression. So helpless, trapped between Charles' control and Erik's vengeance.

Charles. In the midst of everything, Erik remembers his words from that first night in the CIA base: _when I'm so intimately connected with someone as I was with you… I would have experienced it with you. Dying. And it's not something I'm very keen on experiencing, if I can prevent it._

He will not be able to prevent it, not this time, not unless he is willing to give up his control over Shaw. Erik is counting on that Charles will hold on to that control with every ounce of his strength, and it hurts him to know that in doing this, he will become the monster he always thought he was. Still, he has to do it.

"This is what we're going to do." He tries to speak with calm and composure but a lifetime of pain and grief, when finally met with a chance for revenge, is not easily subdued. "I'm going to count to three, and I'm going to move the coin. One."

The coin floats through the air towards Shaw like a small, silvery boat on a lake, born by a wind. _I'm sorry, Charles_.

"Two."

_I'm so, so sorry._

"Three."

With only the slightest resistance, the coin pushes its way into Shaw's forehead. A small entry wound, revealing nothing of the damage that is taking place inside as the coin continues forward. With one last push the coin breaks through the skull on the back of Shaw's head and falls to the floor.

Erik has no wish to ever touch it again.


	8. Chapter 8

With Shaw dead, at least one problem remains: the humans.

Erik cannot imagine that they will not react to the sudden appearance of mutants, in one way or the other, and contrary to Charles' beliefs, Erik is sure that the reaction will be violent. They may stand a chance, him and Charles and all the other mutants stranded here on this tiny speck of dirt and palm trees, but not if they are fighting amongst themselves. There, too, Shaw was right: the mutants must stand united.

Shaw could not achieve it, but with Shaw dead there is no reason for them to fight each other any longer. Their common enemy, the common man, will surely unite against them, so time for retaliation or at least regrouping is short. Even so, he cannot bear to remove the helmet and communicate this with Charles. That is a discussion he would rather have _outside_ his head, if they must have it at all.

He levitates small fragments of metal from the floor of the wrecked mirror chamber and positions them in pairs inside and outside of Shaw's fancy suit, in order to move him around without actually having to touch him. It is no big deal to blow another hole in the submarine's hull, weakened and compromised as it is by the impact of crashing onto the beach, and he levitates Shaw's body out through the hole.

They are all there, Shaw's pawns and Angel huddled together and Raven and Hank and Alex and Cassidy all supporting each other, and, stepping out from the aircraft, Moira and Charles. There is no going back now. Time for his best performance.

"Today, our fighting stops!"

He sends Shaw's body out, away, and then allows it to drop. It falls onto the sand like a broken puppet. Then, using the hull of the submarine, he levitates himself down to the ground. The gazes aimed at him are all stunned, all but Charles'. Charles looks at him with disappointment and aversion, and something Erik does not quite know what it is.

"Take off your blinders, brothers and sisters" Erik says and points out at sea. "The real enemy is out there."

The ships that were only half an hour ago eager to pulverize each other are now switching positions, intermingling, uniting.

"I feel their guns moving in the water, their metal targeting _us_. Americans, Soviets, humans." As he walks forward, so does Charles, but Charles does not say a word. They come together, a few meters between them, and walks toward the sea. "United in their fear of the unknown. The Neanderthal is running scared, my fellow mutants!"

Erik looks at Charles. The distance between them is an abyss, an abyss Erik is desperate to bridge.

"Go ahead, Charles" he says, "tell me I'm wrong."

For a few long moments, Charles says nothing, but the expression on his face changes drastically, from dislike at Erik's word to disbelief at the thoughts he must be catching from the assembling ships out there. Charles turns to Moira, almost dazed, and nods – she takes off, running back to the plane. It will make no difference. She does not matter to them, those who decide: to them, surely, she is already lost, simply by being there with them. If Charles wants to save her, he must understand that the humans will not hesitate to kill her and them both. That is what fear looks like, that is how it works.

And the humans fire on them.

Missiles, ten, twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred of them, all aimed and headed for this sliver of sand. Small and large they are, all at the same time, and lethal should they touch anything, but they are all metal and all magnetic. Erik has more than enough time to prepare, to identify all the individual pieces, and he knows that he is the only one who can stop them. There is no one else to do it, and nothing else to do, so when he raises his hand, he knows that he will succeed. And he does.

Charles would probably explain what happens as a magnetic force field of some kind, and maybe he would be right. Whatever it is, it does the trick and keeps the missiles suspended in the air. He can feel them, the individual texture of each and every one of them on his mind, each one primed and ready to explode at the slightest contact with anything, anything at all. Now that they are released from their guns, the men who fired them have no control over them.

Erik, on the other hand, does.

He turns the missiles around, marveling to himself at how easily they adjust to his will. Charles is not impressed.

"Erik, you said it yourself, we're the better men. This is the time to prove it." His voice, entreating at first, becomes heated and angry. "There are thousands of men on those ships. Good, honest, innocent men! They're just following orders."

If only Charles understood. The men behind the curtains, the men who make policies and decisions, they are of course the rotten core that must be cut away – but these men, those for whose lives Charles is pleading… they might be good and honest, but they are not innocent. Their hands are bright red with blood.

"I've been at the mercy of men just following orders" Erik says. Charles knows this. He knows it all. And still, when Erik turns his head to look at him, Charles looks absolutely disillusioned.

"Never again" Erik concludes, and sends the missiles off.

"Erik, release them!"

Ten, twenty, fifty – a hundred rockets flying back to their points of origin, the ships of the world's two mightiest nations, frightened to acts of murder by ten people on a Cuban beach. Soon they will see their error.

"Noooo!"

Erik barely has time to register the sound before something, someone, _Charles_, tackles him hard and they fall down on the sand in a tangle of limbs. His grip on the missiles fails, of course, but there is no chance of catching them again because Charles is wrestling with him, pulling at the helmet and _fuck you_, Erik elbows him in the cheek.

"I don't want to hurt you" he growls, "don't make me!"

He struggles onto his feet again, registering Raven, Hank, Alex and Cassidy coming towards him and he sends his power towards them – another force field, pushing the boys up in the air, sends them flying a good thirty feet – and then Charles pulls him down on the sand again.

"Charles, that's enough!" Erik shouts at the man under him, holding him down while trying with his other hand to grasp the missiles again, to direct them.

"Erik, stop!"

Charles hands on the helmet again and _why won't he fucking stop himself_, Erik punches him in the face and gets to his feet again. Only seconds until impact and Charles still on the ground, groggily staggering to his feet, when a something hits the helmet with a sizzling _ping_.

Moira.

He turns to her, missiles discarded as he deflects her bullets with his hand, onetwothreefourfive-

"Ouf!"

The sound makes him turn around and it seems to him as if everything happens so very slowly. Charles put his hand to his back, his face distorted with pain, and as Erik realizes what has happened, Charles collapses onto the sand, such a scream coming from the depths of his soul that Erik has not heard since the camps, twenty years ago.

Maybe he screams, too. His mind certainly is.

He runs to where Charles has fallen, wanting to hold him but reaches for the bullet instead, _I have to get it out_. _I have to get it out._ The tiny metal fragment is burrowed deep in Charles' back and after what feels like forever, it drops at last into Erik's hand, flattened and misshapen.

"I'm so sorry" he mumbles, every groan of pain Charles makes like knives in his chest, and he positions Charles' body on his lap, his hand under Charles' head. He has no idea what to do and the realization terrifies him. What if the wound is serious? What if the bullet has touched some internal organs? What if Charles-

"I said BACK OFF!" he shouts at the kids as they approach him again, him and Charles, and they are not the only ones. Moira too.

"You" he says to her, his heart beating like a sledge hammer in his chest, echoed by Charles' heart underneath his hand. "You did this."

Her dog tags make an excellent noose, tightening immediately around her neck. Without oxygen she will die in a matter of seconds and that is no more than she deserves. She is a human, a bloody, fucking ordinary human; a human Charles has cared for and worried over and now he might die because of her, and no one will care if she dies too. Her own kind would nuke this island with her still on it – she means nothing to no one.

No one but Charles.

"Erik, please." He sounds out of breath, rigid with pain. "She didn't do this, Erik. You did."

Erik hears the words as if from a distance.

At first, he thinks that Charles cannot have said that, that somehow the helmet obscured the words, but at the same time, his own mind is screaming at him that Charles is right. _I did this_.

It is his fault. But he cannot admit to that. Not now, not in a thousand years, because it is _not_ his fault. He killed Shaw, yes, and in doing so hurt Charles, but that wound could have been mended in time. Even his turning the missiles back at the men who fired them, Charles might get around to see as self-defense, even if he blames Erik for it now. But this wound, this bleeding, crippling wound, is not Erik's fault.

"Us turning on each other, it's what they want" he says, pressing down the fear that Charles' shivering body causes in him. "I tried to warn you, Charles."

He wants to gather Charles in his arms, mend him and heal him and make sure that no one, no human or mutant, ever hurts him again. He wants _Charles_, wants him well and happy and-

"I want you by my side. We're brothers you and I." _And we could be so much more_. He has never meant anything more than these words, and never has it been more important for him to get his meaning across."All of us together, protecting each other. We want the same thing."

Charles laughs, the strangest sound.

"My friend… I'm sorry, but we do not."

His eyes are clear and his gaze steady, in spite of the violent quivering of his body. The cool blue irises are full of emotions and meanings that Erik cannot grasp, but he does not need to. _We do not_, he said. This brotherhood of mutants, united against humankind – Charles does not want that. After everything they have been through, after everything they have shared and learned about each other – after all that, Charles does not want to stand by Erik' side. He does not want Erik.

He should not be hurt. A lifetime has taught him that expectations will never be fulfilled, dreams always turn to nightmares, and hope is always crushed.

He should have known better.

Erik looks up and beckons to Moira. She rushes to them, relief all over her features, and as Erik shifts Charles' torso onto her lap she apologizes profusely. Erik rises from the sand, trying not to hear Charles' grunts of pain. Charles has spoken his mind, and there is nothing for Erik there. Not that there ever was.

So he turns to the other mutants, to Hank and Cassidy and Alex and Raven and Angel and to Shaw's underlings. He gestures to Charles on the ground, to Moira supporting him, but does not look at them, afraid of what he will see there.

"This society won't accept us. We form our own." They say nothing, so he ups the ante of his speech, gesturing now to the disarrayed fleet instead. "The humans have played their hand! Now we get ready to play ours. Who's with me?"

This is the moment. For them, certainly, but most of all, for him. He cannot be the only one who can see what will happen, how the humans will act and react and how those actions and reactions require counteractions.

_Raven_.

He reaches out to her, as why should he not? She knows the world of which he speaks.

"No more hiding."

She walks towards him almost immediately, limping. He had not realized she had gotten injured. Step by careful step, she comes closer, but her heart is divided and she goes to Charles and sits down on the ground next to him. Of course she would want to stay with him. She should, human threat or not.

But Charles surprises him, as Charles has always had a tendency to do.

"You should go with him" he says. "It's what you want."

"You promised me you would never read my mind" she replies, her voice different as she is holding back tears.

"I know." Charles' voice so very, very low. "I promised you a great many things, I'm afraid. I'm sorry."

He kisses her hand then, and she touches his forehead with her lips, and with a "take care of him" to Moira that could be both a threat and a salute, she stands up, and she takes Erik's outstretched hand.

It is warm and strong, and oddly comforting.

Her action sparks Shaw's trio to move and they approach him too, and they join hands, all of them. It is the beginning of a brotherhood, he feels it in their joined hands, but it is also the loss of one. He cannot bear to look at Charles as Azazel teleports them away from the ruined beach, and yet when he opens his eyes in a small hut on the Cuban mainland, Charles prostrate form is all he can see. During the next few days, as he gets to know his new associates and decides on their next move, that image returns to him again and again, and it mingles with other memories.

Charles next to him in the car, laughing, or Charles bent deep in thought over the pieces on their chessboard, or Charles lips colliding with Erik's. Charles voice as he says that he is sorry, that there is more to Erik than pain and anger, that they do not want the same thing.

If there was ever love and passion in Erik's mind, those feelings might have been erased for good by those last few words. Erik does not know, and as he keeps his helmet on at all times, neither does anyone else, but as he draws up plans with his new brothers and sisters, there is one thing he does know.

Even if he and Charles does want different things, and even if that means that they will, at times, fight each other over those ambitions, they still know each other, perhaps in a way that no one else will ever know them. And that means that, in a way, there is still only them, Erik and Charles, locked in a constant game of chess. On different sides, playing different colors, but playing together. Always together.

It is not salvation, not even the promise of it: it is much, much better.

* * *

**A/N:**

Hello everyone!

Thank you for reading my story, and an extra thanks to all of you who have followed it or added it to your favorites! I hope you have enjoyed reading this as I much as I enjoyed (loved, and was frustrated by) writing it. _The Road to Salvation_ ends here, but I have some ideas for a companion-fic and, after seeing _Days of Future Past_, a whole new story coming to mind. Please follow me as an author if you want updates on these stories, and please let me know (via reviews or PM) what you thought about this story and any ideas, suggestions or wishes for any continuation I might write. Again, thanks a lot - I hope we'll meet again!


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